Minetta Lane

Chapter 2: Madame Juba

Chapter 2

Madame Juba

BODEE ENTERED THE tenement expecting to find one of many tight living spaces, but instead found a spacious parlor featuring a small round table with two chairs in the center of the room. A shelf, positioned next to the front door, contained a single unlit candle. Images of Christian saints adorned the walls, and a long bench, containing a variety of items, occupied one of the back corners. He paused to examine the back bench before following his grandmother up the stairs. What are these figurines and these bottles . . . what’s inside? What’s that smell coming from the jar? She called down from the second floor, “You don’t understand what you’re touching, so put the jar down and come upstairs.”

Juba pointed. “This where you slept—right on the cot in the corner. Your mother, Akua, grew up in this apartment and you started out here twenty years ago.”

Bodee struggled to decide which question to ask first, and began with the obvious, “Why did you think I would be coming tonight and how did you recognize me?”

Juba paused, took a seat, and her severe features contorted. She swallowed hard before answering. “Didn’t say anything about tonight, only knew you’d be here when the sun going down. Been walkin’ out every night looking for you for the last few days.”

Bodee resisted the temptation to ask the logical follow-up question: why at sundown? Juba’s stare morphed into a glare. This woman may be my grandmother, but she’s a stranger and has all of these criminals in the neighborhood afraid of her, he thought. She doesn’t have any interest in giving me information, but where else can I go? Let me be quiet. He settled back in his chair, slumped his shoulders, and stared out the window.

“You give up this fast? After all these years, you stop asking questions after I make a face? You nothing but a little boy who better become a man real soon, or you won’t survive in the Bend.”

“I’m a twenty-year-old grown man and you might understand me more if you ever paid me a visit.”

Juba sprang out of her seat and slapped her grandson square in the face. Whap! He placed his hand over his right cheek and shifted in his chair with his eyes focused on the table.

Juba sighed as she reached for his hands. “You don’t ever talk to me like that! Do you understand?”

“Yes . . . yes, ma’am.”

“Guess I got some explaining to do—been a long time, but I tell you what I tell you, and not all at once. Tonight we talk about one big thing. Sound all right to you?”

“Sounds fine.” Bodee sat back and waited for his absentee grandmother to explain herself.

“The big thing I teach you tonight is about your people, the Ashanti. My grandfather grew up in Africa. Slavers took him about a hundred and twenty years ago to what is now Haiti. He died when my father was small. The master moved with my father and all the house slaves to New Orleans."

“My daddy a slave his whole life, but he a houngan, which is a priest. Needed to learn in secret though, because the master couldn’t find out. I born in New Orleans in 1840, and discovered my family history from my father and I told your mother everything. What she tell you?”

“She said you escaped s*****y and traveled up north toward the end of the war, but nothing about anything down South.”

“So much more to tell. Hold on to who you are—can’t ever lose that. You understand?”

“Yes, Grandma Juba. I do.”

“Just call me Juba.”

“All right.”

“My father like me and you. Better I tell you about this anyhow.”

What does she mean? Bodee thought. I’m like her and her father; she doesn’t understand what I’m like at all. He decided to let her finish her story. “Please tell me.”

“My father smart and could do special things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Your mother didn’t tell you nothin’. You and my father the same, so you needed his name, Bodua. Means either leader or protector in Ashanti. Daddy always a leader, and you’ll be a protector. Bodua is your real name—it got switched up to Bodee.”

“It’s only a name and I don’t feel like I can protect people.” Bodee glanced in the mirror across from the table at the image of his rail-thin frame and its lack of any noticeable musculature. My whole life, I’ve been . . .” He stopped himself.

“What you trying to say?”

“Nothing, go on. What about your name?”

“Juba mean born on Monday. All important things happen on Monday.” Juba chuckled. “Like I said, your granddaddy a houngan and some people around here think I’m a mamba—a female priest—but it not true. So this the big thing I promised to tell you. You with me, so far?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Even though I’m not a mamba, I let them think what they want when they ask for help downstairs. Sometimes what I say works, other times not so much, so I’m careful when not sure. Hard to explain. Someone comin’ in a few minutes.”

“Is this what you do in the parlor? People come to ask for advice?”

“I keep havin’ to tell you . . . nothing’s that simple, but you’ll understand after you listen. He’ll be here soon. Sit right here.”

Juba walked down the stairs and lit the candle on the center table. She heard a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

“Need your help. Got a problem with Martha.” The hulking man eased into his seat, making sure it could handle his weight, and took out his handkerchief to wipe the tears streaming from his eyes. “She left me, and I got two young kids. Can’t go on without her. What I gonna do?”

Juba put her hand over his and started to make a deep guttural moan, “Hmm . . . hmmm.” She released her guest’s hands, opened her eyes, and closed them again. The moaning resumed and continued until her eyes opened for a second time. She studied every inch of the man’s face and said, “Sorry to tell you, but your Martha dead, and the kids do need someone to take care of them. Can’t waste time—many women happy to be with you. Start a new family. You miss her, but she dead. Not sure how, so don’t ask, but she dead. Find a new woman.”

Juba bid the man farewell, headed upstairs, and sat across from her grandson. “So what you think?”

Bodee took some time to respond. “Not sure what to think. Are you for real or playing games?”

“Fair question. Answer is . . . I’m not always for real, but I never play games.”

“What do you mean?”

“His wife sleeps ’round with almost every man in the Bend—she’s a w***e and he’s a fool. She ran away last week and no one thinks she’s coming back. Remember what I said, ‘she dead,’ which is the right thing—he got to think like she dead and start with someone new. No Voudou, no black magic, nothing but common sense.”

“Tell me about when you’re being real. What is real like?”

“Not ready to tell until you ready to tell and I already said too much for now. You use your bed. Sleep well.” Juba excused herself and went to her bedroom, leaving Bodee alone with his thoughts. He felt comfortable lying in the bed of his infancy. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, he realized he was, in fact, home.